


Dortmund - The first eagle

by Snowingiron



Series: German Cities [1]
Category: Paris Burning (thecitysmith)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Paris Burning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 14:34:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowingiron/pseuds/Snowingiron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dortmund had lost his faith in humanity a long time ago. Strangely enough, he found it again during world war II</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dortmund - The first eagle

**Author's Note:**

> The first time he wrote a letter was in 885. He was young and unafraid back then. He wanted to be more.  
> He wrote to other cities but they never answered and even his people forgot about him. He never forgot them.  
> One day the fire took him. He burned to the ground, sure that this would be his end. Dying young and scared.  
> But Barbarossa, the king and later emperor, felt pity for him. He rebuilt Dortmund, stone by stone and took care of the city who had lost all faith. Barbarossa loved Dortmund but the emperor’s love lasted only for two years. In the end they all left him.  
> That’s why he decided to take care of his siblings, who were always close to him. Scared little cities who would stick together from now on. He’s their big brother who loves them and his people but he chose wisely to never love anything or anyone besides them ever again.

Before the first world war started, Dortmund had withdrawn from public and thus hid in dark alleys or forests as he watched planes go into the air.

When he decided to leave his home he already knew what would happen. The first war didn't touch his heart; didn't reach his mind actually. He avoided spring and summer, he came out during winter, the one time when the fields were almost free of people. He didn't trust them anymore, not even his own citizens.

 

 _Come home. We miss you_ \- wrote Bochum.

 

 _Don't come home. God won't spare us anyway_ – wrote Gelsenkirchen.

 

They survived the first war, but a second one would come and test the German Cities in a new way.

 

When they got him, close to the end of the calm between wars, they didn't know who he was. He was so far away from home and the last picture of him that existed was with short hair and a shaved beard. He didn't recognise himself anymore when they put him in front of a mirror.

 

„What did I do?“, he asked. What had he done? Nothing. He had done nothing, just like the others.

 

„Identify yourself,” he couldn’t. He had no papers, Cities didn’t need them. “Are you a Jew?“

  
He remembered Jews. He remembered them just like Christians, both shed their blood to defend him in the last war.

 

„Yes“, he answered then, full of conviction and pride at the memory. Barbarossa would've kissed his head.

 

Buchenwald was a way too pretty name for such a horrible place. _Jedem das seine_. To each his own. Everyone gets what they deserve.

No. No one deserved this.

It didn't take long until he looked like them. He almost died every second and was barely alive for weeks. He starved with them, like them, as one of them. He felt the people's pain and the soldier's satisfaction. Being a City never felt more alien to him. Not before and not afterwards.

Echoes of fire and bombs cracked his skin, but no one ever got suspicious. The same happened to those who worked themselves to death.

 

His own people suffered as well. But they had chosen it. They had their own free will. He hadn't pitied anyone in a long time and had sworn to himself that they weren't worth it anymore. The dissapointment of a City could last several lifetimes. He was angry with the others too. No one came to help him. He was alone among death.

In that night Dortmund had a dream, or he thought it was a dream. Of a man whispering in his ear.

 

_Join us. We're many._

 

He couldn't think. Was it real? He could barely see during day. His eyes were burning. Someone tried to make his people blind. He was sure he would die. Just like centuries ago when he was truly burning. When his king left him.

 

 _Join us_ – his memory whispered.

 

„Come on. We'll help you.“ They were smaller than him, leaner, yet they pulled him up until he sat, gave him a bite of their bread crumb and smiled with dirt on their faces.

One of them was a writer from Berlin, one was a Jew from Munich. They had tried to run, to hide... just like him.

 

„When I'm out, I'll eat an apple“, the writer said one night. „A red one.“

 

„When I'm out I'll fuck a whole brothel“, whispered another in the dark. Only six of them laughed. The other three had died in their sleep.

 

Would they let him go when he told them what he was? Would they bring him home? Would they shoot him over and over again until his brain was replaced by bullets?

  
One day Weimar came to Buchenwald. The black lioness, always so proud and full of love, looked at her people's faces with a content smile. She loved them more than the Cities and always did as they pleased. It should be a good thing, but didn't she also feel their pain? Were they all cowards?

Then she saw Dortmund. They knew each other, long before they became Cities. They would always recognise each other. He could see it in her dark eyes, confident and only slightly widened. She didn't feel any regret.

 

Then Weimar turned away and left.

 

Dortmund raged.

 

_Join us. We're many._

 

Now he tried to run, to escape. The soldiers tried to shoot him. But they missed and the writer fell.

  
„No!“ This man didn't want to die for Dortmund. He wanted to leave with him. To see freedom again, a last gleam of hope in his eyes.

 

He cradled the writer in his arms, he was as light as a baby. Dortmund felt bullets piercing through his chest but it didn't hurt. His eyes were fixed on the writer, who stared at him, tears in the corner of his eyes, as the bullets left Dortmund's body again and he saw the skin healing.

 

„You're...“

 

People. Fragile things. „You must take care of them“, Essen once said to him. And for the first time in almost one thousand years, Dortmund wept for humanity again.

 

_Join us. We're many._

 

„No“, he whispered. „There will be another way. There always will be... I am a City and I'm not afraid to change.“

 

He stayed there, rocking back and forth, repeating the words over and over again until they brought him home.


End file.
